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Composer:
Ed Hooke
Written:
January 2002 -
Recorded:
January 2025
Modest, mid-
now well past its best
this house clearly once a home has been.
Inside hide displays
of better days
paled from prior, prized pristine.
For the last few years
so it appears
its occupants have numbered merely one.
His long-
longed-
left him lone & undone.
Now though there’s a different dawn
-
while routine traffic routes past this spot
noticing not.
As if some spurious spell contrives
that thing that thrives in countless drives
devouring
hives of lives’ archives
-
Carpets wrenched from floors
detached doors, chests of drawers
shelves, bookcases,
cupboards tall.
Albums of photographs
-
-
Dim, dismayed parade
curtains frayed & greyed, a lampshade
a hushed house, hollowed,
mutely howled.
Plinth & pot upon
an ottoman
-
A walking aid, a ballustrade
long record player, long unplayed.
Grip, strip, rip,
flip, tip -
into the skip.
This building leaks, creaks, reeks & squeaks
speaks spun threads from three thousand weeks.
A coat of mink, bedsheets of pink
-
A few weeks later
-
-
-
the house is ready & waiting
for a new young family to move right
in.
Ron’s house
is Ron’s house no more.
Moved on.
Ron is gone.
Ron had a fine career
-
-
Active in the church
-
-
Never loud or rude
not one to intrude
but one you could always rely upon.
A true pillar
of the
local community
-
Procession, slow, through the doorway
fittings, fixtures, trolleys, a tray.
No passers-
No sign of Ron.
Pairs or chairs, some kitchenwares
cafetieres, odd broken stairs…
-
weaves towards the skip.